


tell me i'm your baby

by badbadnotgood



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, more bridge scene feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbadnotgood/pseuds/badbadnotgood
Summary: “I think there’s a market open that way,” Villanelle says, tilting her head left.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 7
Kudos: 122





	tell me i'm your baby

They linger at the bridge a little longer, arms crossed over the cold wood. The night air nips at Eve’s cheeks, makes her lips feel dry and chapped, but she can’t bring herself to move. It feels like a rare moment of peace in her manic life. And it’s with Villanelle.

She sneaks a look at her: high cheekbones vibrant from the harsh shadows of the night contouring her cheeks. Sharp as a knife. Her eyes, round and olive, glittering from the lights. She’s gorgeous, Eve thinks. She thinks that often. Eve knows Villanelle can feel her staring, but she makes no effort to tear her gaze away, not even when Villanelle breaks the silence.

“I think there’s a market open that way,” she says, tilting her head left.

That’s how they find themselves at a food market, canopies with fairy lights filling the streets Eve walks through to get to work. The warm smell of roasted chestnuts and donuts makes Eve feel like she’s a kid at the fair.

“Ooh, spiked coffee,” she hears Villanelle say. Then she’s being dragged to a stall.

Villanelle buys them Irish coffees, rich and sweet. It warms Eve from the inside out, the spike of alcohol a pleasant burn in her chest. She watches Villanelle take small sips, smacking her lips together gently to pick out each flavour. Eve’s staring again.

“This is good,” Villanelle hums. “But I’m Russian. I should laugh at how little booze they put in this.”

Eve suddenly feels pathetic for being overwhelmed by her first few sips. “I think Russian measurements would turn this into a street party,” Eve says.

Villanelle scoffs. “These little babies cannot handle their drink.”

“Please don’t teach me to drink like a Russian,” Eve begs.

Villanelle laughs warmly, so warm that Eve’s insides feel like they’re scorching. She can’t tell if that’s Villanelle or the alcohol in her coffee. The coffee sits warm in Eve’s stomach, pleasant and comforting. So that must be Villanelle.

They walk together through the market, dodging what few people are still lingering around the stalls still serving. Eve’s not imagining the way Villanelle deliberately bumps their shoulders and brushes Eve’s hand with hers every so often. Eve’s not complaining, either.

Eve’s accepted that she needs Villanelle’s company, presence, to feel grounded. She’s etched her way into every aspect of Eve’s life, and she’s all Eve thinks about most of the time. Eve’s made peace with it. She won’t fight her own feelings anymore. She knows now their relationship has toed the line past physicality and has leaped right over it. She has feelings for Villanelle, the kind that keep her awake at night and make her question her sanity.

“Eve,” Villanelle says.

They’re back at the bridge. Eve hadn’t even noticed, had just followed Villanelle’s lead like she has her own gravitational pull. Villanelle takes Eve’s empty cup and tosses it in the trash with her own, approaching Eve again slowly, almost like she’s trying not to scare her away.

She really does look good in that coat. Mustard is pretty on her.

“We’re so dysfunctional,” Eve finds herself saying.

Villanelle steps forward and takes Eve’s face in her hands. They’re warm from nursing her coffee cup. They make heat prickle at Eve’s cheeks. “I don’t care,” Villanelle says. She rests her forehead against Eve’s. “I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.”

“Good,” Eve says, and kisses her.

Villanelle’s fingers slip into Eve’s hair until she’s cradling the back of Eve’s skull, a light pressure that makes Eve melt against her. She shivers under Villanelle’s touch. Magic. The slanting of their mouths isn’t enough, and Eve’s relieved Villanelle feels the same when she slips her tongue past Eve’s lips and into the warmth of her mouth. She tastes sweet and warm from the coffee, and Eve lets herself get lost in the sticky heat.

Villanelle pulls away just enough to keep their foreheads pressed together. She keeps her hands cradling Eve’s face and smoothing at her hair. Eve’s chest blooms, heart threatening to burst out of her chest.

“Take me home, Eve,” she says against her lips.

Home is Eve’s apartment. It’s Eve’s old house, the one she sold. It’s Villanelle’s apartment in Paris. It’s right here, on this bridge, cold night air replaced with the warmth from Villanelle’s hands and lips. The location is never important, is never what makes it home for Eve.


End file.
